


Father Christmas Definitely Isn't Fit

by ArtHistory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Christmas, Christmas Party, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Lap Sex, M/M, Weight Gain, fat kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtHistory/pseuds/ArtHistory
Summary: The Yard's annual Christmas Party is in full swing!Sherlock is drunk, and very interested in his flatmate's commitment to his role as Father Christmas.





	Father Christmas Definitely Isn't Fit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aris_Silverfin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/gifts).



His head spun.

Another drink was slipped into his hands as the noisy office party re-shuffled the fading playlist, a cheer echoing through their floor of Scotland Yard as Mariah Carey warbled out “All I Want for Christmas”. A number of men and women in various shades of red and green latched onto one another, scream singing along. The strings upon strings of light danced around their heads, a much cheekier writer comparing them to ‘visions of sugarplums’.

Sherlock Holmes sipped his drink silently.

He hiccupped as the bubbles burned in his throat, the champagne much too cheap for his palette, but he could barely taste it. He could barely hear the screeching of the Yard’s drunken revellers. Barely see the shimmering lights strewn throughout the office. The sound of his own blood pumping in his ears was deafening, his vision a tunnel that closed in on one thing and one thing alone.

John Hamish Watson.

The Yard had an annual tradition of someone in the office playing the Starring Role of Father Christmas. It meant lugging in all the party’s booze with a resounding “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” and sitting in a horribly red suit on a horribly red chair and listening to drunken Yarders ramble about how they wanted a pony. It was always quite fun, Sherlock assumed for everyone else, though Santa couldn’t get nearly as smashed as the rest of them, and was responsible for clearing out the empty bottles and cans the next morning. Sherlock hated the tradition, but John had found it charming, so Sherlock had written down John’s name instead of his own in the drawing. Lo and behold,

John Hamish Watson was fucking Santa Claus.

Sherlock’s heart echoed in his ears again, his eyes still locked upon the sandy-blonde haired man as he wiped at his brow with a cherry-red arm, tugging off his hat and tugging down his beard to bring an ice-cold can of beer to his lips. Sherlock murmured to himself, finishing his drink and taking a drunken step forward, his expensive Italian shoes moving slowly across the carpet.

John had taken the role to heart, and had thoroughly enjoyed the entire Yard’s ripping about how the fitness fanatic best “have another plate of chips” or “swipe up a second doughnut”. The doctor had laughed along,

But then he had.

Sherlock’s cheeks colored as he looked at John’s rounder, fuller cheeks, watched his Adam’s Apple bob as he happily drank down his beer, not a care in the world. It seemed that being tasked to play Father Christmas had given the man full permission to simply indulge over the holiday season. There wasn’t a scrap of honied ham or a speck of Mrs. Hudon’s Christmas pudding that hadn’t vanished into John’s rapidly-vanishing abs.

It seemed the Watson Metabolism was one naturally inclined to accept and story fat, with decades of jogging and gym-use promising his swelling frame that stored fat would be quickly turned to muscle or burnt away. This was, of course, not the case. John’s abs had rounded, bloomed out into a generous, notable pot belly. It oozed over his belt, peaked eagerly over his jeans and out of jumpers like a newborn puppy. Said jumpers and jeans left nothing to the imagination, hugging the bowing curve of John’s Christmas Lard as he drank eggnog straight from the carton, and squeezing the cheeks of his once-flat, now perfectly bitable bubble butt as turkey legs that would make Henry VIII jealous so his grease-stained lips.

Sherlock’s cock twitched as he saw the blonde doctor delicate pick up a massive cookie with a white-gloved hand, his heart thumping deeper as greedy, hunger flashed in John’s eyes before the cookies was a smattering of crumbs on John’s first finger and thumb, and suddenly the detective's round, full arse was thumped upon John’s thigh. John’s thick...thick thighs…

Sherlock purred, leaning into the man as John jumped, tugged his beard back up over hi face on pure instinct.

“C-Christ I-URP- Sherlock?” John burped, Sherlock shuddering as the man’s middle bounced, jiggled with his belch.

The detective shivered with arousal as John’s gut wobbled against him, both his hands flying to the cheap, black belt that wrapped around the man’s sui-

Good god. It was  **tight** .

The Yard’s Santa suit, designed to be padded, stuffed, was so very packed with  **John** that it  **strained** around the doctor’s fattened, glutted middle.

Sherlock gave the man’s belly a jiggle, pressing and sinking into it, his face warm as it slotted into John’s neck.

“Oi! Sh-Sherlock don’t tea-” John finished that sentence with a moan, another belch pressed out of him by Sherlock’s nimble fingers, the detective’s pupils like dinner plates as he tore away that hideous belt. The Santa suit pushed open, John’s gut flooding into Sherlock’s hands, filling them with a mountain of caramel lard.

Oh, naughty boy.

It seemed that John had neglected to wear anything under that soft, red suit. Probably because he was too fat for it to begin with, a very naughty part of Sherlock’s brain echoed, the man’s cock rocketing to attention.

John flushed, stuttered behind his beard.

“I-I-...w-well it looks like I’ve finally packed on all those holiday pounds I’ve been HIC dodging the past few years.” John tried to smile, his own blood pounding in his ears now, Sherlock’s hands squeezing, adoring,  **worshipping** his bulging tummy like a cat playing with a new toy, the man’s breath coming in hot, desperate pants on his neck.

“C-Cookies were just a bit too good this year.” John tried to joke, straightening and puffing out his belly as much as he could, the tanned dome swelling out further against his flatmate, John’s eyes going wide as he watched it bulge out onto his own thick, nearly kissing thighs.

“J...Jesus” Joh  breathed, his own cock chubbing up as his gloved left hand smoothed down its curve, bringing its size into reality, his right having instinctively settled on Sherlock’s lower back the moment he sat down, though now it too was creeping southward, finding a handful of his flatmate’s perfect, ivory arse.

John gulped, looking up to see the taller man sitting straight now, his eyes dark as his fingers slid into John’s false beard. Sherlock tugged it down, then off, tossing it aside. 

John’s heart pounded, looking around to find the rest of the Yard too drunk to notice them in their far-corner of the party, and looking back to find a smiling gingerbread man pressed to his lips.

“Cookies for Santa” The handsome man sitting in his lap purred, his eyes finding John’s own.

“H..heh. Think Santa’s not fat enough?” John tried to joke, his cock jumping as he gave his own, bare gut a harsh  **slap** .

The monstrous thing tented beneath Sherlock’s full arse as the man grinned, shaking his head, then pushed the gingerbread man passed John’s lips.

John ate. And ate. And ate.

The gingerbread men were divine, before even more so were the slow, soft rolls of Sherlock’s round arse whenever John swallowed a cheek-bulging mouthful of sugar and fat down, the doctor’s lips flying back open with more and more eagerness each time he finished a smiling little cookie. He could feel himself swelling, rounding outwards as the bright-red trousers grew tight against his gut only long enough for Sherlock’s nimble fingers to pop the button open, John whimpering as more and more of him flooded against Sherlock’s thigh.

Finally the plate - no, platter, now that John looked at the size of it - was empty. He flushed at thought of someone having brought that with the intention of feeding the entire party, and instead only feeding one, rapidly fattening doctor. He flushed, breath coming in short, needy pants as Sherlock looked him over. 

His thighs were spread, Sherlock’s arse still perched on one of them, John’s hand still locked onto it. His trousers were unbuttoned, his shirt undone, bare chest and equally bare gut on display beneath the cheery twinkle of lights. Sherlock splayed his hands across the wide, overfed expanse of it, John’s hips bucking on instinct at the touch of Sherlock’s hands, as the sudden warmth of Sherlock’s lips on his neck.

Suddenly those spread thighs were pressed together, Sherlock needily straddling them, his dark curls tossing as he snaked out John’s cock, smoothing his fingers along the perfect pearl of precum at the head of John’s cock, slicking them and giving the massive thing a quick three pumps.

John shuddered, another jewel of precum kissing the head, and immediately a panting detective’s own slim, shorter cock joined John’s own. Sherlock’s thighs squeezed, and John’s hands locked onto the man bubble butt to steady him as one of Sherlock’s hot hands slipped around their slicked cocks and began to wordlessly pump.

John gasped, moaning out Sherlock’s name, his plump - oh gods, when did get so plump! - fingers squeezing, kneading the detective’ round arse as Sherlock’s palm pressed into John’s gut, the doctor blushing, grunting, then silently keening as he belched his way to orgasm, painting his overstuffed gut with his ecstasy. Sherlock came not a moment later, gasping, his free hand gripping John’s right love handle hard enough to bruise before collapsing against him, their hearts thundering away against one another as Sherlock’s mouth kissed at John’s neck.

John’s hands ran up and down his new lover’s back, pecking the side of his head with soft, sleepy kisses.

“You know what my New Year’s Resolution is?” John purred, puffing out his gut against his slim lover’s middle, grinning as he felt the man’s heartbeat speed up.

“I’m going to quit jogging, and get so much fucking fatter.”

John grinned wider as he felt Sherlock’s cock surge to attention.

“Best get me some more snacks if you want a round two.” John growled, nipping at Sherlock’s ear,

“Because Father Christmas can never get enough cookies.”


End file.
